Lydia pondered this, smoothing her skirt where it had gathered mud. "Perhaps someone wants to ensure I do not arrive at my new estate."
Maximilian's brow furrowed. "Or they want to frighten you into abandoning the journey."
"How ordinary," she said, then softly added, "Do you think it is about the inheritance?"
His response was slow and deliberate. "I think it is about you. And the estate, perhaps the woman who arranged this." He shot her a meaningful look. "Your aunt was not universally beloved."
She fisted her hands, her mind racing through potential enemies—distant cousins, offended neighbors, her sister’s network of gossips. It was not a short list.
She stood, brushing the dirt from her hem. "What now? Shall we press on and see if the next wheel comes off with more flair?"
"I am quite adept," Lady Marchweather called out.
Maximilian looked down the road, then up at the sky, in the habit of a man who had learned to weigh storms and people carefully. "We go on. I will get a fresh carriage at the next village, and we will not leave it unattended. We will not trust the hospitality of future stops without caution."
The coachman, kneeling by the wheel, grumbled about the unpredictability of Londoners. Lydia shot him a look. "If you are frightened, you’re welcome toride inside with us. We can share the brandy and our mutual suspicion. The dowager can drive."
Maximilian did not acknowledge the joke. Instead, he motioned for Lydia to return to the carriage. She complied, climbing inside and watching as he gave the coachman a quiet, intense instruction—likely to check the horses and keep watch. When Maximilian rejoined her, a muscle twitched in his jaw.
Lydia watched his hands drum a silent code against his knee and wondered if he was thinking about the carriage or about her.
"You know," she said, "if someone wanted me dead, they might have chosen a simpler method. A poisoned crumpet, perhaps, or a stray musket ball in the hunting field."
He looked at her, the faint lines of his forehead softening. "Perhaps they think you too clever for that."
She smiled despite herself. "You have a rather high opinion of my cunning."
"You have survived this long," he said. "That is enough evidence."
The compliment surprised her, and she blushed, turning to the window to hide it.
They continued on, the world outside brighteningas the clouds parted. Lydia watched the changing light, her mind racing with thoughts of the evidence, the sharp tang of conspiracy in the air, and how Maximilian now sat a little closer, as if his presence could offer protection.
She was not afraid—fear was not her nature—but she felt something sharper and more exciting than before. A sense that the journey was not just about claiming an inheritance.
There was something, or someone, waiting for them at the end of this road. And Lydia Montague, who had never backed down from a dare, felt her pulse quicken at the thought.
The carriage rattled on, worn but unbroken, its joints creaking.
The afternoon faded as they reached the next village, the air thick with mist and the smell of rain-damp wood smoke. The coachman pulled up before a small, unimpressive inn, its sign swaying and its windows fogged with condensation.
Inside, the dining room was little more than a box of battered tables and uneven floorboards, its only virtue the promise of a fire and hot water. The few locals present stared as Lydia entered, her skirts marked by the journey, her cheeks flushed from thewind and the thrill of danger. Maximilian followed, head lowered, his jaw tight.
The dowager declared herself unwilling to eat in public, ordered a tray to her room, and promised to supervise from bed.
Lydia and Maximilian took a table near the hearth. The innkeeper, a woman with strong arms and a cracked voice, brought tea and a plate of bread and cheese. Lydia poured steadily, watching the swirl of steam.
"So," she said, her voice low, "let us review the suspects."
Maximilian did not look up from his cup. "Must we?"
"We must," Lydia replied. "If only to amuse ourselves until the next attempted murder."
He remained silent, but the tightness around his mouth indicated agreement.
Lydia leaned in, elbows on the scratched table. "First, the obvious... a relative with more ambition than affection. My father is dead, but his brother, the Viscount, might see my survival as an inconvenience."
"He does not seem the type to arrange deliberate tampering," Maximilian said. "But desperation breeds invention."
